


Дурные привычки (Bad Habits)

by Evillen, QDS



Category: Blitz
Genre: Absinthe, Alcohol, Intoxication, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-28
Updated: 2011-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:19:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evillen/pseuds/Evillen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/QDS/pseuds/QDS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nash's worst habit is the desire to feel alive. And for that desire to coincide with Brant's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Дурные привычки (Bad Habits)

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Дурные привычки](https://archiveofourown.org/works/219501) by [Evillen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evillen/pseuds/Evillen). 



> If you do like it, leave your comments/kudos there rather than here so Evillen sees them. :) As always, I translate via Google Translator and other online means, and also from the help of Evillen. :)

*

The first time Brant brought it up was when they sat in the cheap pub and drink the contraband poteen. Brant has good connections and getting this sort of illegal stuff isn't a problem for him.

"Let's say that Weiss walks," Brant said carefully. There was a peculiar softness in his voice, as if he was waiting for Nash's reaction and wondering: will the inspector pick up the idea or not. Nash does. He was expecting something like this, but hoped they would dig up the missing evidence, and they wouldn't have to talk about what to do to make the killings stop.

"Let's change the subject, I do not like where it's going." Nash quickly finished the poteen, frowns and stands up from the table, not waiting for a reply from Brant.

He doesn't want to think about what the sergeant hinted at. After the incident with the pedophile, Nash promised himself he would no longer administer vigilante justice. It was too hard to deal with afterwards. He's not a murderer; he must follow the letter of the law. All that remains is to find the words to say it to Brant and to mute the little voice in his head saying: "If not you, then who?"

The second time they sit in Nash's living room, and once again drink. Porter doesn't remember the last time he felt sober. Since that time Brant stumbled in late at night and, despite the inspector's weak protests, he poured brandy, these evenings have become habitual. Nash doesn't object, and obediently drinks all the stuff that Brant slips him. Sometimes he doesn't even ask what it is, so he doesn't have to worry if it's illegal. This time they drink absinthe. "This is new," thinks Nash. He doesn't see the words "without thujone" on the label and that alone means that the bottle is clearly not from a store shelf, so he expect there'll be some kind of catch; for example, that soon he'll start to experience glitches.

They drink today because Weiss was released, and they couldn't do anything to prevent it. Weiss laughed in their faces and they clenched their fists helplessly. Brant's eyes clearly said "this is not the end," and Nash knew what he would say this evening.

"I thought," Brant says, lighting a cigarette and exhaling smoke in the direction of the inspector. Nash routinely waved his hand, chasing the haze from face, but said nothing. He likes the smell of tobacco constantly coming from the Brant, and doesn't care that passive smokers shorten their lives.

"Listen, Brant -- " Nash choses his words carefully, but Brant interrupts him.

"No, Nash, you listen. Weiss is a bastard. If he's not stopped, he will kill again and again. Maybe this time he'll kill a child? Have you thought about that? It's no longer limited to cops." Brant compressed the glass so much that Nash saw the white knuckles of his fingers.

"I know Brant, but we gave an oath to serve and protect. And not to kill! We can't just go out and lynch people!" Nash put the glass on the table and throws his head with his hands. He understands that Brant's right, but can't afford to accept it.

In the next second Brant's glass hits the wall with force and splits apart in fine splinters, spraying green liquid on the white carpet.

"Fuck, Brant, have you lost your mind?" Nash gets up from his chair and walks over to the sergeant, and kneels, looking up. Brant sits on the couch and rubs his face.

"I'm sorry," he breathes, "I couldn't hold back. You have to understand, Nash. I know that you think about it too!" He looks into Porter's eyes, so intently that Nash catches his breath. "You're not a killer, I know. But I'm not asking you to kill him. I asking you to help me. Please."

Hearing "please" from Brant is unusual as the fact that Brant reaches out and squeezes Nash's hand, twisting their fingers together. Nash gives in and slowly nods.

"Good. Ok, out with the plan. It's probably full of holes."

Strangely enough, Brant plan isn't too bad. Except for the fact that Nash will have to leave himself wide open, trusting Brant to enter the game before Blitz has the chance to pull the trigger. It's unnerving. Nash isn't used to trusting people this much. But for some reason, he agrees. The sort of child-like joy in Brant's eyes makes it worth it to risk their lives. And even then, that at this moment Nash feels so alive that he wants to scream. This scares him even more.

"So it's not just the absinthe?" asks Nash, when they've discussed all the details and come to a perfectly well-considered plan.

"I'm offended!" Brant shouts. "Do you know what the maximum amount of thujone is allowed in absinthe?"

Nash shook his head. His knowledge of alcoholic beverages are limited to good whiskey and cognac.

"Then let me show you something!" Brant, as if remembering something, jumps off the couch, snatching up the bottle, and then from the kitchen he calls out, "Are you coming or do you need a special invitation?"

Nash reluctantly gets up and walks to the kitchen, not expecting anything good. Brant is busy over the glass with absinthe, and then with triumph in his face he holds it out to Porter.

"Here's how to drink it properly!"

Nash takes the glass with caution and is amazed how cold it is.

"Are you sure that I'll live to see tomorrow?" Porter asks, and Brant claps him on the shoulder.

"I am sure!" He looks too happy. "I need you alive, so I will not slack off."

"Well, then." Nash makes a small sip. It's like liquid ice, with a hint of something sweet. It's very nice, and Porter takes another sip. "Mmm, delicious!"

He licks his lips and looks at Brant. His head swims a little, and a pleasant warmth begins to flow through his body. Brant comes up to him and takes the glass from his hand, finishing the leftovers.

"It can't be warm, you fool. Sip – put on the table. It's not your brandy!"

Nash nods automatically. He's too busy with his own feelings to say something sarcastic in response.

"Can you do more? Please," he adds hastily, and leans on the rack that stands on his kitchen table.

Brant laughs and pours another glass. Nash can't take his eyes off Brant's leisurely flowing movements. Everything becomes clearer and brighter, even his hearing is more acute. Nash feels a pulsing wreath around his neck, feels the bitter flavor of wormwood from the open bottle. He's getting hot, and he unbuttons his shirt, pulling off his tie and throwing it somewhere towards a chair. Brant turns and stops, automatically taking a sip from the glass filled with pale green liquid.  
Nash sees beads of sweat dripping on his brow. How Brant's Adam's apple move as he swallows. He takes the icey glass from the sergeant's hand and when he comes in contact with his fingers, Nash shudders. He drinks in big gulps, and quickly empties the glass.

"You didn't add any ecstacy, did you?" Porter asks hoarsely.

Brant shakes his head. "You mean you've tried ecstasy?" Brant is too close, Nash feels his breath on his face, and...it turns him on. His eyes widen, his breaths become confused, and he takes a step back, but Brant catches his arm, jerking him up. His hard cock rests against Porter's groin, and the inspector quietly moans.

"Damn." Brant hisses through clenched teeth, and then kisses the inspector lips, crushing them, and whispering in his mouth, "You slut, Nash."

"But you like it," whispers Porter. "Makes you feel alive, right?"

And Nash knows that with this observation he's hit the mark. That this is why, every day, Brant drinks the strongest, illegal garbage, why he beats up criminals instead of arresting them, because he is bound to Porter. Nash makes him feel alive and what is happening now – turns all his emotions upside down, and there is nothing more important than light haze in his head, hot breath on his lips and hands moving over his body. Brant freezes for a second, then with a swift motion unbuttons his jeans and with one jerk pulls down Porter's trousers. In a moment Nash finds himself on the table with his legs spread and Brant's hands fumbling around him in search of something that could be used as lubricant.

"Oh, forget it, Brant, I don't need lube," Nash hisses, leaning forward, rubbing on the sergeant's hard dick.

He doesn't have to repeat himself, and Brant abruptly pushes into him, so that Porter's eyes tear up, and he bites his lip. Brant is trying to hold back, to give time for Nash to adjust, but he can't hold on for long, and soon he drives into the inspector, clasping Nash's shaft in his hand and pumping it in rhythm of his thrusts. Nash comes almost immediately; he is too excited. He brings Brant's hand to his lips and licks his cum from Brant's fingers. Brant breathing quickens, and it's the sight of that does him in. He kisses Nash, feeling his taste in mouth. Dizzy with his own orgasm, Brant pushes Nash to the table with his weight.

Nash hears the sound of broken glass.

"You fucker, that's the second glass in a night!" Though Nash feels too good to really worry about glasses.

"I'll give you six." Brant breaths heavily into his neck, and Nash's skin raises with goosebumps.

"You've already destroyed most of my bar," Nash mutters. "Get off, you gorilla, you're bloody carcass is squashing me!"

Of course, the stronger Brant bares down on Porter, and bites his collarbone, leaving red teeth marks on his skin. Nash laughs and tries to shove him off, but it's easier to shift a tank for its place. However, when Brant moves from his clavicle to his nipple, Nash stops struggling and only makes a low moan.

When he returns home after the murder of the Blitz – he couldn't pull the trigger and gave the gun Brant, who didn't hesitate – the apartment is quiet. Brant said that he will get rid of the evidence himself, but Nash has to cook something for dinner: "and a lot of it." Porter stands for a long time in the hallway, remembering Weiss's frightened and frantic eyes, and the satisfaction on Brant's face. He doesn't know what he feels about it, or rather in his heart knows – and it sends a frightening shiver through his fingers. Nash goes to the kitchen looking for any kind of alcohol; he emphatically doesn't like this sober state. And he stops at the threshold. On the table is a bottle with emerald liquid, unmarked, and six massive glasses.

\--  
End  



End file.
